


Me With You

by lapsus_calami



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Set in the magical Season Four where Isaac didn’t leave, Stalia is not a thing, prompt, sorry cuppachar, this got a little darker than intended, this is totally not what you asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 17:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13416402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: Isaac and Stiles have some issues. Maybe all they need is some time together.





	Me With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cuppa_Char](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppa_Char/gifts).



> Prompt: S2/S3. A one-shot Stiles and Isaac rivalry fic. Stiles becoming increasingly jealous (fear of rejection and insecurity leading to inappropriate comments and a too sharp tongue) of Scott's budding new friendship and how Stiles and Isaac inevitably get into a one-upmanship show much to Scott's chagrin. Bonus for either Stiles or Isaac saving the life of the other.
> 
> Not at all what you asked for, but here you go.

**Me With You**

“Stiles?” Malia asked. “Why are you glaring at Isaac while mutilating your food?”

Stiles glanced at her then down at his tray where, sure enough, he’d shredded his French fries into an unrecognizable pile of potato slivers. With a sigh of disgust he threw the last fry on top of the pile and slouched back in his chair. “Because I’d like to shred Isaac’s stupid face off,” he said. “That’s why.”

“I thought Isaac was your friend,” Malia commented swirling a fry of her own through a mound of ketchup and popping it in her mouth.

Stiles sighed again, slouching down so far it was practically uncomfortable. At the other end of the table Scott tossed his head back laughing long and loud at something Isaac had said. Scott threw an arm around Isaac’s shoulders pulling the taller boy in for half a hug before letting go.

“He is,” Stiles forced himself to say. “He is. A friend. He’s a friend.”

“I can hear your heartbeat, Stiles,” Malia said popping another fry in her mouth and chewing. “I know that’s a total lie.”

Stiles dropped his gaze from Scott and Isaac, staring at the pile of potato on his tray. It wasn’t a total lie, not really. Isaac was a friend. He just wasn’t Stiles’.

*

It started out slow. Stiles, at first, hadn’t even realized it was happening. Sure, he and Isaac didn’t get along well, but it was almost _fun_ how they didn’t get along. Sarcastic soul mates with the ultimate of bickering matches.

Eventually, though, Stiles found the words slipping past his lips holding more bite than bark. Found himself seeking out the sore spots. Found himself wanting to hurt Isaac.

It was petty, but, well, Stiles never claimed to be anything but petty. Hell, pettiness was his bread and butter. He gave Scott a dog bowl for kissing Lydia for fuck’s sake. He really didn’t have much ground to stand on when it came to pettiness.

And it was wrong and it was petty, but he resented the fuck out of Isaac for doing what any logical person would do. Because Scott was a ray of goddamn sunshine so _of fucking course_ Isaac wanted to be his friend. Especially since, well, literally _all_ his other friends, other than Derek who was a debatable friend at best, were dead.

Erica.

Boyd.

Allison.

All dead.

So yeah, Stiles being pissed at Isaac was petty.

*

“You know something,” Stiles snapped at Isaac eyes burning from staring at the screen of his computer so long. “Instead of being a jackass, you could try and be a little helpful.”

It was lack of sleep, and only lack of sleep, that made Stiles tone sound so bitter. That was his story and he was sticking to it. It had nothing to do with Isaac because Stiles just flat out didn’t care anymore.

Isaac scowled. “I’ve had a shit day and, since it’s apparently escaped your notice, it’s been a month,” he spat back.

Stiles rolled his eyes before he could stop himself, replying acidly. “Are you really still using that as an excuse?”

There was a momentary flash of hurt across Isaac’s features and a brief pang of regret and grief in Stiles’ chest that was brutally shoved away a moment later.

“Yeah,” Isaac said, words scathing. “I’m still using that.”

Stiles refused to reply, turning his focus back to the files in front of him. They were more important anyway. After all they couldn’t have a group of hunters casually moving into Beacon Hills.

Later Scott stared at him with hurt puppy eyes and asked, “Why would you say that to him?”

Stiles just shrugged. Truth was he didn’t know when Allison had become such a sore spot between them along with Scott. But there you had it. One more thing he and Isaac couldn’t amicably discuss.

*

“I tracked one hunter back to a trailer in Oak Hill. There’s at least six or eight of them there,” Isaac said and Scott nodded thoughtfully, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Okay, that’s a good start. If we know where they are we can keep an eye on them and try to figure out what they’re doing here.”

Stiles snapped his fingers. “That, oh dear Scotty, I have the answer to,” he said shooting Isaac a smug look and laying down pictures he’d appropriated from his father’s case files. “They’re targeting other supernatural beings. This guy? Wendigo. Yeah I know. Weird. This lady? Bona fide medium. This girl? Werewolf, like you. I mean this is nuts. Who knew there were so many supernaturals in one place?”

Lydia leaned forward in interest. “How do you know they’re supernaturals?”

“It’s quite obvious if you examine the bodies,” Stiles replied. “Or in the case of the medium just talk to the daughters.”

Scott glanced at Derek in the corner of the room before nodding. “This is good. We know where they are—”

“Which we don’t really need if we know who they’re going after,” Stiles commented earning a dark glare from Isaac that he sniffed at and ignored.

Scott just spoke over him. “We know where they’re at and who they might be targeting. That’s more than we had two days ago. Good work, Isaac.”

Isaac found himself returning Scott’s smile, it was too damn infectious not too. Stiles scowled and Isaac didn’t refrain from sending the other boy his own smug look inordinately pleased when Stiles’ scowl deepened.

“We should all head home and get some rest. Go in pairs, guys,” Scott said and everyone nodded their assent, beginning to pair up with whoever lived closest to them. In a softer tone meant for just the four of them Scott continued, “Isaac, I’ll take you obviously. Derek, can you go with Stiles?”

Derek nodded, giving Stiles a once over. “Yeah, sure.”

*

“What the hell is going on between you and Isaac?” Scott demanded pushing Stiles into a separate room like that would even help with the overhearing. For one, Stiles was pretty sure there was going to be shouting. And for two, werewolf hearing anyone?

“Nothing is going on. Everything’s wonderful.”

“Don’t,” Scott said. “Don’t do that. Don’t do that thing where you retreat in your head and say everything is just fine and dandy. I know it’s not.”

Stiles sighed, “I don’t know what to tell you, Scott, I was just fooling around.”

“By joking about his dad? And mocking him about Allison? When did you become that guy?”

Stiles shrugged reaching back to drum his fingers on Derek’s counter. “I don’t know. Probably around the same time I was puked out on the floor in a pile of rags.”

Scott closed his eyes, visibly gathering himself. “Stiles.”

“What, not the answer you wanted?” Stiles asked. “Too heavy for you?”

“No,” Scott replied steadily. “And we can talk about it, just you and I, but Isaac—

“Oh, let’s not pretend you actually care anymore, Scott!” Stiles shouted inexplicably frustrated by everything. He felt his hands tremble and quickly stuck them in his pockets as he blinked back tears he didn’t need Scott to see.

Scott frowned looking wounded, “What is that supposed to mean? Of course I care.”

Stiles wiped a quick hand over his face and shouldered past the alpha to leave. “No, Scott, you really don’t.”

*

“Still no leads on the hunters?” Lydia asked startling Stiles as she approached the table.

“Ah, no,” he replied. “Still a mystery. They haven’t done one suspicious thing since we figured out where they are and what they’re doing”

Lydia hummed thoughtfully. “Chris on his way back still?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said absently. “His plane lands tomorrow night…goddamnit, none of this makes any sense. What are they doing here beside killing supernaturals? And why now? What are they up to?”

“Maybe they’re just here to hunt,” Lydia suggested hesitantly in a tone of voice that said she’d rehearsed. “Maybe…you’re just looking for a deeper reason because you think there needs to be one.”

Stiles paused, looking up to meet Lydia’s gaze. “You think I’m making this all up?”

“No, I think you’re dealing poorly with everything we’ve just been through.”

Stiles sighed. “I’m dealing fine. If you’re not going to help, then you can leave,” he said gesturing widely at the door. “I’m not stopping you.

“Of course I’m not leaving,” Lydia snapped primly before taking a seat. “You and I will figure this out together if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

*

It happened fast. One second he was arguing with Isaac—“What is the point of you, seriously? Do you exist to piss me off?”— as they headed to his jeep. A slight scuff sounded behind them. Then the world was going black with the pungent odor of chloroform and wolfsbane. The last thing Stiles remembered thinking was, _oh, so this is their plan._

*

Isaac woke first. Jolting up and immediately looking for Stiles. The human lay on the floor a few feet away, face pale and eyes still closed. But his heart beat steady and Isaac let out a sigh of relief. In spite of all the hard feelings between them, Isaac could safely say he’d never wished the other boy harm. At least not permanent harm at any rate.

It was only a couple more minutes before Stiles’ eyes fluttered and he groaned awake, rolling slightly to his side and scowling as he caught sight of Isaac.

“Of course,” Stiles groused as he forced himself into a sitting position and eyed Isaac across the room. “I couldn't just get kidnapped by myself, I had to get kidnapped with you.”

“At least we’re not alone,” Isaac found himself saying.

Stiles merely huffed.

*

They took Isaac first. Stiles watched quietly as they came in and dragged Isaac out. He watched quietly when they brought Isaac back, dropping the werewolf unceremoniously to the floor before closing the door without so much as a glance in Stiles’ direction.

Stiles scrambled forward gently turning Isaac over and patting his face. He was covered in blood, but otherwise unharmed. Already healed. He blinked awake at Stiles ministrations and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief he’d later deny.

One time down. Many to go.

*

They took Isaac second too. And third. And fourth. By the fifth time he was coming back with weeping lacerations and freshly healed burns. By the sixth it took hours for him to fully recover, Stiles sitting alert by his side while he rested and slowly stitched himself back together.

On the seventh time they took Stiles. Isaac growled and snarled, lashed out with his claws but washeld back by a cattle prod as they dragged Stiles kicking and screaming from the room. He had no delusions as to what they’d do to him.

He wasn’t surprised to be bound to a wooden slab. Wasn’t surprised at the bag over his head and the water pounding down at him, drowning him on dry land as an unfamiliar voice hissed questions.

_Where is the alpha?_

_Where are the others?_

_You think you’re part of their pack? That wolf won’t protect you like he’ll protect his alpha._

_If it’s you or the alpha to die he’ll always choose you._

*

“If you had to choose between me and Scott, who would you pick?” Stiles asked mindlessly staring at the ceiling.

Today was time twelve, and Isaac just finished vomiting blood in the corner with their pee and shit. It smelled rank enough to roll even Stiles’ empty stomach. He couldn’t begin to contemplate what it must smell like to Isaac.

“What?” the werewolf asked wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

“If you had to choose between me and Scott, who would you pick?” Stiles repeated closing his eyes. He heard Isaac shuffle to his feet and felt him crouch next to his side. Opening his eyes the barest amount he peered up at the other boy confused at the amount of emotion on Isaac’s face.

“I don’t have to choose,” he said.

“But if you did?”

Isaac’s expression fell, brows furrowing and something heavy like guilt darkening his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said something resolute settling in his chest. “I’d choose Scott too.”

*

They started alternating with no set pattern. One time it would be Isaac, the next Stiles again, then Stiles, then Isaac three times in a row. He and Isaac learned to go with it, taking comfort in the other while in the room and holding strong, neither one willing to give up the pack.

On day seven Isaac tried howling for Scott or Derek to hear. The hunters took him all day leaving Stiles alone in the dark, stomach a fit of knots as he contemplated endlessly the worst-case scenarios. When they finally brought Isaac back he didn’t wake for a full cycle. The next day they took Stiles.

*

On the ninth day, by Stiles’ count, neither one of them was taken. At dusk a bowl of water and two pieces of bread were set inside the room by a harried looking man. The next day there was nothing.

*

“Something’s wrong,” Stiles mumbled and Isaac blinked, pulling his thoughts back to the room instead of the field he’d been imagining.

“What do you mean?”

Stiles was staring at the door, face pinched in worry or pain or some combination of both. “They should have come in by now. It’s been too long.”

Isaac considered that glancing towards the door himself. He didn’t really have any concept of how much time was passing or how often the hunters had come to visit them so he couldn’t adequately respond to Stiles’ statement. Stiles, though, had a pretty good grasp on the passage of time. Or at least he had before.

“Maybe they’re just punishing us,” Isaac suggested. “Making us wait.”

Stiles shook his head. “They always brought us food and water in the morning except the last time,” he said.

Isaac chewed on his bottom lip, something sour twisting in his stomach at the implication. Resolutely he pushed it away, swiping his palms on his dirty pants and shaking his head.

“I’m sure they’ll be in,” he said ignoring the unconvinced look Stiles shot him. “We just have to be patient.”

Scott, he thought, would be proud of his optimism.

*

It took until the room grew cold then warm then cold again for Isaac to accept the hunters weren’t coming back.

*

Isaac’s shoulder ached something terrible but he didn’t cease ramming it into the door. He slammed into the door again producing the same dull thud it did every time. Again. And again. And again. Always. The. Same. Dull. Thud. Never giving.

“Isaac.”

Again. It would give eventually, Isaac was sure. It had to give.

“Isaac.”

Isaac summoned all his strength. He was a wolf. He should be able to break down a damn door to save himself. To save Stiles. They were trapped in a box with no way out, but they needed out. Both of them. Stiles. And Isaac. They needed out.

“Isaac!”

A hand grasped his arm and Isaac spun around with a snarl, feeling the shift wash over his features. Stiles stumbled back, falling hard to the floor with a yelp and scrambling away. One arm was extended defensively, several scratches dripping blood to the concrete. Isaac flared his nose, pulling in the scent of blood, sweat, and despair.

“Isaac,” Stiles said and his voice was steady even if his heart was not, pounding away rabbit fast in his chest. “Isaac, you need to stop. You’re bleeding.”

Isaac flared his nose again in confusion. Stiles was bleeding, yes. But him? He looked down, inspecting his hands where his claws burst from his fingers blood welling up around the nail beds. There was more blood tracking down his left hand. From his shoulder no doubt, where he’d been ramming into the rough door.

“We aren’t getting out of here,” Stiles continued softly. “Both you and I have seen the other side of that door. We couldn’t do it together. You’re not doing it by yourself.”

Isaac slid down the wall, feeling his shift fade away until he was huddling utterly human in the corner by the door. Stiles shifted forward, rolling up on the balls of his feet and reaching out slowly for Isaac’s hand to inspect bloody and torn fingertips.

“I’ll heal,” Isaac said, and Stiles shook his head.

“But you aren’t. Not as fast as you should.”

Isaac swallowed, gaze running over Stiles’ skin where bruises and marks still lingered looking fresh even though by now they’d had at least a few days to heal. “Neither are you.”

*

“I miss Allison,” Isaac confessed into the quiet. “I was, uh, actually going to take Chris up on his offer to go to France.”

They were lying side by side on the chilly floor touching shoulder to shoulder and leg to leg, Stiles taking what comfort he could from the natural heat of the werewolf. Tonight was colder than the other nights, a shift in weather, and they could hear a storm raging distantly outside.

“I’m sorry.”

Isaac turned his head. “For what?”

“It’s my fault she’s dead,” Stiles said and Isaac felt his heart go cold. The group as a whole had decided there was going to be no blaming of Stiles for Allison’s death. After all, it wasn’t his fault and everyone had known the risks going in to rescue Lydia from Eichen House. Scott had even had a goddamn pack meeting where they’d all sat down to talk about their feelings. Isaac had hated it. Stiles had too, but he’d nodded and gone along with it and never voiced any thoughts to the opposite.

“No,” Isaac said. “It’s not your fault. It was the Nogitsune.”

Stiles laughed wetly. “Yeah, that I let into my head and was too weak to kick back out.”

So that was it. “I’m sorry.”

“What in the world for?” Stiles asked with a scoff.

“We told you it wasn’t your fault. I guess we never really thought you wouldn’t believe it,” Isaac said and it was true. Not one of them had actually ever asked Stiles. Not one of them ever even talked to him about his experience of everything. They’d all be too busy dealing with their own hurts and their own grief. But Lydia had Malia and Kira, never replacements but new shoulders to lean on. Isaac had Scott, bound together irrevocably by their connection to Allison. Stiles had pulled away from everyone, so subtly none of them had even noticed really.

“We never considered what it would be like for you,” Isaac whispered.

“Oh, please,” Stiles snapped. “It wasn’t like she and I were even friends.”

“But you were, weren’t you?” Isaac asked. “Before she and Scott broke up.”

Stiles licked his lips, pointedly looking away.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Isaac repeated, and if Stiles covered his eyes and cried on the floor of a dark and dirty prison room Isaac wasn’t going to mention it.

*

Isaac woke to the sound of someone vomiting. It threw him off for a moment. For a few, precious seconds he didn’t remember where he was. Then it all came rushing back and concern buried the confusion as he pushed himself up to see Stiles.

After a few more dry heaves Stiles wiped his mouth with his arm glancing over to find Isaac staring at him. “Dehydration,” he rasped. “Sucks ass.”

“Dehydration,” Isaac repeated a low and heavy feeling settling in his gut. Of course.

“A human can survive three, four days without water,” Stiles whispered. “Vomiting is not a good sign. I don’t…I’m…”

He was shaking. Isaac could see now. Fine tremors wracking his body as he held himself against the wall. Isaac slid across the room. His own mouth was parched, throat dry from days without any liquid. But he was a wolf. He’d last longer. Stiles wouldn’t.

He reached out laying a hand over Stiles’ fingers on the wall and focusing on drawing out the pains. It took more effort than it should and sharpened his own sense of fatigue and thirst, but he didn’t stop until Stiles slumped sideways into him.

Stiles protested. “You shouldn’t have done—”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Isaac said wearily. “We’re gonna die in this room, okay? We’re gonna die here. May as well not suffer any more than we need to.”

Stiles stared up at him, eyes dark and sorrowed, haunted in a way that reminded Isaac of Allison. After a moment his lips twitched up into a small smile even as his tongue darted out to catch a stray bead of blood welling up from one of the numerous cracks on his lips. “Shame I’ll never get to tell Derek you’re really starting to rival him for the sourwolf name,” he rasped.

Isaac snorted settling back to rest against the wall. After a moment of hesitation he tugged Stiles toward him, taking comfort in the contact as Stiles settled along his side.

*

“Why do you really hate me?” Isaac asked and beneath Stiles’ ear his heart beat steady, chest rising and falling with each breath.

“I don’t hate you.”

Isaac’s hand settled heavy on the back of his neck the familiar effects of the pain drain drawing away the aches of his scorched throat, cramping stomach, and chilled extremities. “I’m not an idiot, Stiles,” Isaac said. “I know you don’t like me. I just don’t understand why.”

“I’m cold.”

Isaac was quiet for a long moment, one hand rubbing up and down Stiles arm, then, “I know.”

“I don’t hate you,” Stiles said again. “I just…I’m afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“You’re a werewolf,” Stiles explained. “And you’re smart and snarky and Scott likes you.”

“You keep talking like that,” Isaac replied, “I’m gonna think you’re hitting on me.”

Stiles chuckled, almost painful. “In your dreams,” he rasped. “But, really, I was afraid that Scott would like you more than he likes me and that with what happened with Allison he’d…stop being my friend,” he admitted laughing faintly and letting his eyes flutter closed. “It’s stupid, I know, but—”

“You never were one for logic,” Isaac finished wryly and rather than causing a spark of hurt it actually bolstered a faint flare of amusement.

“No,” he agreed huffing out another dry laugh. “I’m really not.”

*

Stiles slept most of the time now. Occasionally Isaac could rouse him but not often and never for long. Even when Isaac could get him to wake Stiles didn’t know where they were, sometimes didn’t know who Isaac was, didn’t understand anything Isaac tried to tell him. It was best if he just slept.

Isaac shifted, carefully gathering the other boy closer and burying his nose in Stiles’ hair. He could still hear Stiles’ heart beat, slow and irregular like his breathing, but he was starting to smell like some of the animals at Deaton’s clinic. Sick. Near death.

They were both going to die in here, but Stiles, Stiles would die first.

*

The sudden thud dragged Isaac from a fitful sleep, jarring him awake. Stiles didn’t so much as twitch. Isaac shifted just enough to pull Stiles closer as he raised his head to stare at the door. Something thudded hard against it, the wood shaking and a fine cloud of dust billowing up. It thudded again and there was muffled talking. Then something snapped and the knob turned, the door easing inward slowly.

Isaac blinked, swallowing roughly as well as he could and staring uncomprehendingly at the man in the doorway.

“Isaac,” Chris breathed and it took Isaac a moment to place the emotion in his voice. Horror. Relief. Maybe a mixture of both.

Chris hesitated for only a moment before swiftly approaching and dropping to his knees beside them. “Isaac,” he repeated. “Are you all right?”

Isaac blinked again, eyes burning like his body was trying to find enough water to cry but there was nothing to spare. He settled for nodding, reflexively tightening his hands in Stiles shirt, lump too large in his throat for him to speak.

Chris nodded, briefly laying a palm to the side of Isaac’s face before shifting to press two fingers against Stiles’ neck. Checking for a pulse, Isaac realized. The expression on his face—sad, worried, resigned—scared Isaac.

“He’s alive,” Isaac said. Or tried to say. It came out as an almost unrecognizable rasp, his tongue thick and uncooperative in his mouth. Chris met his eyes briefly, kept his fingers against Stiles’ neck, and dread crawled through Isaac settling heavy in his stomach. He licked his lips, trying again. “He’s alive. Right?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, but he didn’t sound relieved. “Yeah, he’s alive.”

*

“How long?” Isaac asked later when he and Scott were sitting silently next to a hospital bed.

Three steady beats from the monitor filled the room before Scott said, “How long what?”

“How long were we there?” Isaac clarified staring at Stiles’ still and pale face. “After you killed the hunters.”

Scott swallowed, leaning forward to carefully cradle Stiles’ hand in his own. “Four days,” he said softly. “It took us four days.”

Isaac breathed in then out and inched forward to wrap his fingers loosely around Stiles’ wrist. Scott gave him an inquiring look that made his skin itch look but didn’t comment. “Stiles could have died,” he whispered.

Scott nodded. “But he didn’t.”

“Four days, Scott,” Isaac said, voice breaking. “He should have died.”

Scott nodded again. “But he didn’t.”

*

Isaac found the beeps of the heart monitor comforting. They were muted, nothing like the sharp beeps from the shows on television, and more like a low tone. It was day two and Stiles was still in a coma, but the doctors were confident he’d wake once his body had sufficiently recovered enough to sustain consciousness.

Across the bed Scott slept in an uncomfortable twisted mound on the chair he’d pulled up to Stiles’ beside hours before. Isaac himself had been here longer than Scott, too long according to the others who had all but begging him to leave and get some rest of his own somewhere comfortable, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Whenever he did even for the smallest amounts of time something inexplicably anxious thundered through him because he couldn’t see Stiles. Couldn’t hear his heartbeat. Couldn’t keep him safe and alive.

Ridiculous because there was always someone from the pack there or Stiles’ father or Melissa, but Isaac couldn't leave. So he shifted in his chair once again attempting to find the least uncomfortable position and resolved to stay just a little longer.

*

As luck would have it, Isaac was home sleeping and woke to a missed call and a message saying Stiles was awake. Because of course Stiles woke up in the five hours Isaac had been bullied into going home to rest on the fifth day. Right bastard.

Derek was just coming in carrying two grocery bags when Isaac stumbled down the stairs pulling on socks with his jacket hanging off one arm. Derek eyed him silently for one moment before sighing and dropping his bags on the table.

“I’ll drive.”

*

When Stiles blinked awake, he was alone in the room. Kind of a disappointment what with how it always went in movies, but, reality, he figured was far less quintessential. So he woke alone and confused in a sterile hospital room.

There were four chairs in the room. One on each side of the bed, both pulled close, and two at the end of the bed pressed against the wall. To his left hung a curtain and Stiles thought he could hear breathing on the other side over the muted sounds of television.

He reached for the call button.

*

He was eating soup when his dad and Scott showed up, the relief on their faces showing a truly staggering amount. Stiles endured several hugs from both and found himself repeating the words, “Really, I’m okay. I’m fine,” over and over.

He couldn’t shake the feeling, though, that something was missing.

*

When Isaac came charging in over an hour later that something settled. He looked awkward, hanging back by the door until Dad cleared his throat and rose to his feet, muttering, “I’ll give you boys a moment,” as he left. In the hallway, Stiles could see Derek loitering like the stalker he was.

Isaac came forward and slowly sank into the chair on the left side of the bed. For a minute there was nothing but the steady hum of machines and the low volume of his neighbor’s television. Isaac spoke first. “I’m really glad you’re not dead.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said with a small grin. “Me too.”


End file.
